Part 12 (1/2)

Yet I was restless, sick of travel, eager to stand on terra firma again. It was evening, and I convinced my bloodthirsty companion to step from the train for a few hours' respite-and for myself, a decent meal.Arkady led me to a restaurant in the old town of Buda-one where he had, he said, dined many, many years ago-and neither drank nor ate but entertained me with conversation as I did both. I drank barak, the fiery apricot brandy, ate a rich fiery dish of chicken sauced with cream and paprika, and stared out at the dark hills that overlooked the wide black Danube and the great unfinished bridge spanning it. Looked out, too, at the spires of a great cathedral-Saint Stephen's, Arkady said, with grim irony.

I know he senses my abject disgust at his capacity for murder; he is trying now to win back my trust. Certainly he never seemed to me more human than when he told me, with a sly smile, of the reputation of Hungarians and Roumanians both for wiliness and for moral disregard, and he made a small joke: What is the difference between a Roumanian and a Hungarian?

Either will gladly sell you his aged mother; but only the Roumanian will deliver.

I did not laugh; could barely manage a small smile. The strain of travel and worry have begun to wear on me. I can think of nothing else except what has become of my child and my brother; at the same time, my weary body wanted nothing more than to stop and spend a night in a comfortable-and stationary-inn. But the urgency of our quest forbade it.

So we reboarded the train and continued our journey until the wee hours of the morning, when we arrived in Klausenburgh, which Arkady calls Cluj, our first stop inside the Transylvanian border. There we were forced to find accommodations-where we remained until late afternoon, which caused the innkeeper no small amount of consternation and cost us no small amount of coin; we were forced to pay for a full night's stay.

Arkady is free with his money and insists on separate lodging, which satisfies me. I have no desire to know the details of his existence; after the incident with the poor apoplectic in the compartment, I already know far more than I ever wished. But I sense that the hours are irregular for him as well, for they appear to have taken a toll on him; his striking youth and handsomeness are no longer so p.r.o.nounced, and once, when we were conversing over my Buda-Pesth dinner, he turned his face to gaze mournfully out the window- and it was as though a mask suddenly slipped, revealing the profile of a haggard, aging man.

From Klausenburgh we took the train to Bistritz (spelled Bistrita, which Arkady p.r.o.nounces Bistritsa). I thought the Austrian trains were slow, but the Roumanian rail system is slower still, and maddeningly un-punctual. Our train departed more than an hour late, and took nearly six hours to make a trip that in Holland would have taken less than three.

I am waiting, now, in a hotel in Bistritz that is renowned for neither its comfort nor its food-but it is the only one in town that, according to Arkady, is safe. There is a coach that leaves every afternoon for Bukovina, which it seems bore Stefan and Zsuzsanna and my son-my son!-away to-day. (I could not keep a groan of relief from escaping my lips to hear that the small golden-haired child who accompanied the woman was the picture of radiant health. Thank G.o.d, they have not harmed him.) We are only two hours behind; and so we dare not wait until to-morrow for the next coach. Arkady has gone to try to procure horses and a carriage, and we will make the trip as soon as he returns.

I have asked him why they have taken my child; he only answers darkly that he does not know. But I sense there is more he does not tell me.

ENTRY. I have written this in the carriage, so I do not know whether it will be legible to anyone other than myself; but I felt compelled to put it all down, though I can scarcely see in the gathering gloom. If we succeed and recover Stefan and Jan, then we shall all someday treasure this record of the darkest event in our family's history.And if we fail . . .

Arkady drove the horses, for he is familiar with this region, and his vision is keener than mine: although he clearly craved more rest, I did not argue, for the land is wild and rugged, with mountains whose like I had seen only in the Swiss Alps. I had no desire to be the one responsible for keeping the carriage from going off the narrow winding pa.s.s over the cliff's edge-and I was grateful that the sunset had dimmed the view of our perilous ascent into the Carpathians.

The external conditions seemed to reflect the state of my mind, for the weather quickly turned raw, and as we set out, a light snow began to fall. Our carriage was an open caleche, with only enough roof to cover our heads, so that the blankets covering our legs quickly grew damp; I grew both chilled and grateful that I had brought the bottle of barak my Buda-Pesth host had generously pressed upon me.

Shortly into our journey, after we had left the town behind and ventured up into the mountainous forest, Arkady reined the horses abruptly off the path. The suddenness of this action caused my pen to leave a broad mark across the page (for I had just begun to record this entry); I looked up to see an astonis.h.i.+ng sight. The mountains-which had stretched before us into infinity-had vanished, and we appeared to be in a different area altogether: a glen, sheltered beneath thick branches of towering pine. So sheltered, in fact, that the snow stopped, and the air grew warm and faindy hazy with mist. But most remarkably, soft sunlight filtered down through the branches-the sort of pure streaming light used to depict the favour of G.o.d pouring down from the heavens-giving the place an otherworldly aura.

This realisation left me quite speechless; I thought I had either dozed and dreamt that I had left with Arkady just before sunset, or that I dreamt now. But my perceptions were all too real, too keen.

The horses slowed their pace and calmed as they trod softly over a thick carpet of pine needles; and then Arkady reined them to a stop and turned to me.

”Abraham,” he said in his melodious voice; the air had grown so pleasantly warm and damp that even the vampire's breath hung as mist between us. Beautiful though that voice still was, I saw that his handsomeness had waned even more; indeed, it had faded the instant our surroundings grew charmed, and it seemed to grow more mortal, more human, each moment we remained there.

”What is this place?” I asked in reply, my voice hushed with awe.

He did not answer but continued: ”There are many things you must understand before we arrive at the castle. There is a chance we will not arrive in time -before Vlad has a chance to perform the blood ritual. If he drinks Stefan's blood-by chalice, lest he make him undead-and Stefan his, then your brother will be under the vampire's sway. For the rest of Stefan's life, Vlad will know where he is and what he thinks. And he will to some extent be able to manipulate him. This I know because it was done to me when I was mortal.

”I performed the ritual upon Stefan myself-not out of any desire to invade your brother's thoughts, but out of hope it would minimise Vlad's control. So you see”-and here he smiled unhappily-”I understand how you must feel, finding yourself unwillingly in the employ of a monster.”

”For the rest of Stefan's life?” I asked, aghast. ”Then if this happens-he will never be safe.”

”True. If we take Stefan from him, he cannot follow; but there are always men who favour money more than goodness, who will fetch him for a price.” And he turned his face towards mine, his dark eyes suddenly afire with a radiance I knew sprang not from immortal glamour but from the desperation of a human heart.”But there is a way to end the danger to him forever. Abraham-you must help me to destroy Vlad. To destroy myself, and what I have become. You must believe that I take no pleasure in this existence-but if I die now, I only help perpetuate the greatest of all vampires.

”Will you help me destroy him?”

I could not quite meet his intense gaze. ”I will do what is necessary to save my son and brother.”

He sighed in disappointment and was silent a time; then said: ”I cannot let you go into Vlad's lair unprotected.” He looked up, and I followed his gaze, astonished to see through the rising mist, that a stone building-what appeared to be a small monastery, win-dowless except for a small spired chapel-stood directly in front of us.

”Arminius!” he called in the utter silence, a silence such as I have never heard before or since; the air itself seemed to absorb his words so that they did not echo. Another moment later, the black wooden door opened to show a figure in the shadows. Arkady turned back to me and said wryly, ”I thought to advise you never to speak of this place to anyone; but it does not matter. They would think you mad anyway.” His expression grew suddenly wistful. ”I had never thought to bring anyone here, except perhaps my own son. But I know you can be trusted.” He gestured with his chin at the waiting figure. ”Go. He will give you what you need.”

I hesitated in disbelief and confusion.

”Go,” he repeated, more firmly. ”I cannot.”

I crawled down from the caleche onto heavy dew-soaked ground; the air was redolent of evergreen and damp cool earth. Aware of every clumsy sound I made in that silent glen, I crossed to the doorway and found within a pair of ancient eyes.

As ancient as Vlad's; perhaps older. Yet these eyes were not shrewd and cunning but wise- and calm, as silent as the glistening oasis surrounding us, as dark as the night beyond. They beheld and saw everything without pa.s.sing judgement, without making demand; I could have turned from them at any time and gone but found I did not want to.

Their owner, the presumed Arminius, was an unprepossessing man dressed in a monk's black robe- wiry and small, with long white hair and beard that spoke of age, and a straight, strong spine that spoke of youth. The silence between us did not discomfit him; he merely waited, watching, until I stammered in German: ”I am ... Abraham. I require ...” I hesitated, trying to remember what I had read in Mama's diary: ”A crucifix.” It seemed forward to ask for an outright gift; I rumbled in my pockets and realised the only currency there was Dutch. I pulled it out and proffered it to him. To my surprise, he laughed aloud, grinning in a way that seemed entirely ingenuous and certainly unmonklike.

He ignored the guilders in my palm, instead nodding with his chin at Arkady and the waiting carriage. ”You wish for something to repel the vampire, yes?”

”Yes,” I said, and felt myself blush at the outrageously superst.i.tious admission; at the same time, I wondered how well he knew my travelling companion and whether he thought I might be using these items against Arkady. It was at the very least a preposterous situation, that a vampire should deliver me here to collect the items to ward him away. Yet Arminius seemed to find nothing unusual about the situation or my request, though I was not at all certain he even understood it. Still wearing his idiot's grin, he gave a small bow from the shoulders, then retreated, closing the door behind him.

After some moments, he returned with a small pouch of black silk, which he unceremoniously handed to me. I nodded thanks and turned to leave with it.

”Abraham,” he said in strangely accented German; upon reflection, I have decided his native language was Hebrew.

I turned and allowed myself to be irritated by the unselfconscious amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes.

”You have in your hands two gold crosses and the sacred Host. Do you understand what these things are?”

I was raised as a child in the Catholic Church, though as an adult, I had left such beliefs far behind. Exhaustion and strained nerves had worn away the last of my civility; who was this man to address me as if I were a simple-minded child? I was the one who possessed superior scientific knowledge; he knew only superst.i.tion and folk legend. Did he think himself my better?

”Yes,” I snapped. ”Two pieces of metal and a cracker.”

He slapped his thigh and with a burst of hilarity doubled over, then straightened and threw his head back. ”Ho ho!” he crowed. ”You give me hope, Abraham! You are the first ever to give a sensible answer.”

I almost replied snidely that I had not known this was a test-but was distracted to notice for the first time that his black robe was neither a priest's robe nor a monk's, and that he himself wore no crucifix, no symbol of faith. I stared back at him, frankly curious.

Wiping happy tears from his eyes, he gestured at the pouch. ”You are quite right, of course, that these are no more than what they appear to be. But to use these properly, you must understand. Any symbol, any sc.r.a.p of metal or crust of bread, is holy only to the mind of him who makes it so. And it is useless unless properly prepared: Relics are only as powerful as the will of the one who charges them, whether consciously or unconsciously. The cross can be worn to ward off the vampire, and the Host used to seal places of entry and exit.

Keep them in the pouch, and they will not disturb your . . . friend. But know that, if exposed, these will be very strong-if you trust.”

”I will try,” I said, with a cynicism I know showed in my face and voice.

All mirth fled his manner, transforming him into an entirely different man, one of awe- inspiring authority and conviction, with eyes full of pa.s.sion and power. ”Try-and you and your brother are lost. There is no room for trying, Abraham. You must have confidence. I'll not waste my efforts on those doomed to failure.”

That he should know of Stefan startled me into silence; I tried to remember when Arkady might have had the time to tell him, to precede our arrival by telegramme. Perhaps that night my brother was taken, in the hour or two before he came to me in the kitchen . . .

At the same time, I was annoyed that he should speak of wasting his efforts, when it was my life and my brother's at stake. What had he done except provide me with a few relics?

”I will not fail,” I said, with a heat I felt on my face. ”I will do whatever is necessary to save my brother.”

”Good,” he replied. ”Then perhaps I will see you again.”